The Realist

He was sure he was sure. He took pride in it. He was steady. He was unvarying.

He rebuffed all contenders.

He was a soldier of What Is.

He made sure never to remember his dreams. When he awoke in the morning, he stepped from battles with demons, collaborations with networks of underground spies, flights above mountains, banquets, and he went straight into a cold shower.

He stood under the water and built walls in his mind for the coming day.

There was one outside voice he let in. The voice was scrambled. He tried to decipher it, but he couldn’t.

Finally, nine years later, on a spring morning, at the age of 67…

He made out what the voice was saying. It was reciting a heraldic poem.

He had the sense that the voice had been reciting a very long poem for the past 50 years or so, advancing each day…

A month later, he wife said to him, “You realize you haven’t gone to work for quite a while now, don’t you?”

Sitting on the couch, he nodded and held up a finger for silence.

He was listening.

The language of the poem wasn’t English, it was a combination of Sanskrit and ancient Greek.

He was sure he was sure this was so, but he didn’t know how. The only language he spoke was…Sumerian.

He asked his wife for a cup of tea. She stared at him for a minute, then turned and walked into the kitchen to make lunch.

Sumerian was a rather stark and harsh language, so he decided to forget how to speak it. Sanskrit was more flowing. He closed his eyes and looked through one of the walls he’d built in his mind. Yes, there was Sanskrit, laid out like a symphony.

From now on, that’s how he’d talk.

His wife called a professor she knew at a nearby college, a man she’d been thinking about starting an affair with.

He dropped over.

The husband took a break from listening to the poem and began speaking Sanskrit to the professor, who said, “You’re speaking in Sanskrit.”

They looked at each other.

The professor shook his head and left.

It was quiet in the house. The wife was upstairs packing for a trip to her sister’s. She needed a break.

That night, after his wife left, the man realized there were several dialects of Sanskrit. He reached back and found the first one, the original.

But how had that dialect arisen? Had it been built from pieces of earlier languages?

Did it just appear one day, more or less full-blown?

And if so, how?

That was an interesting question. He pondered it for several hours.

Unlikely, he thought, that a language as sophisticated as Sanskrit could have been constructed on the fly.

It could have been there, all along, waiting to be called upon, like a horse in a barn.

Time to ride.

He stopped listening to the heraldic poem. Instead, he went to his study, sat down at his desk, and began writing his own Sanskrit poem.

A few hours later, he found himself jotting down the formula for an herbal remedy.

He got up and left the house.

He drove to the other side of town, to a small shop, where the owner sold old television sets and phonographs and toasters and mirrors.

The owner looked at the formula for a minute, nodded, walked through a curtain into another room and came back with a short squat bottle holding a brown liquid.

The man took it, removed the cap, smelled it, and drank a sip.

“Is this a dream?” he said (in Sanskrit).

The owner nodded yes.

The man tried to remember how the dream had started. Had it begun when he was a small boy? Had he buried the dream all these years?

There was a full-length mirror leaning against a shelf of toasters. He walked up to the mirror and gazed at himself.

He was a tall man, but not now. Now he was short and rather fat. He had a smile on his face. A very cheery smile, light and floating.

He laughed.

A vaporous train slowly passed through the shop. The people sitting in the train waved at him. The train passed through the curtain and was gone.

The man looked around. The owner was gone, too.

The man walked behind the counter and waited.

A few minutes later, three people came into the shop. They were speaking a language he’d never heard before. It was quite languorous.

They gestured for him to follow them.

They went through the curtain into a small room whose many shelves were filled with bottles containing liquids. They moved out the back door of the shop into an open field.

People were milling about. He caught pieces of their conversation. They were speaking a number of different languages, none of which he understood.

It didn’t seem to matter.

He was quite happy.

In the center of the field stood a tower. It was under construction. Men and women and children were working on it at various heights. They were placing bricks and using some sort of clay or cement to hold them in place.

A woman walked up to him.

In Sanskrit, he said, “What is the tower?”

She shrugged and said (in Sanskrit), “It’s just for fun. Something to do.”

“Oh,” he said. “It’s not going anywhere in particular?”

She laughed. “Going somewhere? I suppose it will, if you want to count space as somewhere. But it’s just an idea. We decided to keep making it higher. Why not?”

The man looked at her face. She reminded him of his wife as she’d once been, a long time ago. Before he…

Before he raised all the money and built the church and appointed the pastor and the governing board, and took charge of the permanent fundraising project. That life seemed quite strange to him now, looking back on it.

He took the woman’s hand and walked over to the stack of bricks and picked one up.

She picked one up, too.

“Let’s climb a ladder,” she said. “The view is wonderful up there.”

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

Jon Rappoport

The author of three explosive collections, THE MATRIX REVEALED, EXIT FROM THE MATRIX, and POWER OUTSIDE THE MATRIX, Jon was a candidate for a US Congressional seat in the 29th District of California. He maintains a consulting practice for private clients, the purpose of which is the expansion of personal creative power. Nominated for a Pulitzer Prize, he has worked as an investigative reporter for 30 years, writing articles on politics, medicine, and health for CBS Healthwatch, LA Weekly, Spin Magazine, Stern, and other newspapers and magazines in the US and Europe. Jon has delivered lectures and seminars on global politics, health, logic, and creative power to audiences around the world. You can sign up for his free emails at NoMoreFakeNews.com or OutsideTheRealityMachine.

Like this:

Related

Post navigation

7 comments on “The Realist”

Thanks, Jon, for the intriguing tale of life. The closing scene to a seventy-year (1945-2015) Tragic-Comedy is puzzling because major parts of the opening scene were hidden by a news blackout [1] of events #3 to #6 between 6 AUG 1945 and 24 OCT 1945:

1. Hiroshima was DESTROYED by the release of energy stored in cores of uranium atoms on 6 AUG 1945

2. Next Nagasaki was DESTROYED by energy released from the cores of plutonium atoms

5. Stalin’s troops then shot down and captured the American crew of a B29 bomber over Konan, Korea

6. Stalin held the American crew for negotiations to unite nations in SEPT 1945 and forbid public knowledge of the FORCE OF DESTRUCTION in cores* of heavy atoms.

7. The SEPT agreements to form the UN and forbid public knowledge of neutron repulsion were formally ratified on 24 OCT 1945.

Today’s closing scene illustrates the Divine Sense of Humor:The FORCE OF DESTRUCTION in cores* of heavy atoms is the FORCE OF CREATION of every atom, life and world in the Solar System from theSun’s pulsar core* [2].

Oh yes! He was sure he was sure. Sure of “What is” and sure of “That’s it”. End of the story.

He grew up, like most people, in huge security brick walls schools, where the forever closed windows, never allowed the winds of fantasy and creativity to ever penetrate. One reality, one law, one perception.

But in the darkness of his nights, just like a blind man agitating his arms into the air, his mind dreamed and explored the potential of all possible worlds.

When he finally decided to listen to the unshakeable heraldic poem in Sanskrit obsessing his mind for so long, he felt a deep relief. He realised that the heraldic symbol was the Tower of Babel.

Before it was built, there was only one language, one religion and one country, sort of today’s dream of the Elite New World Order. A socialist agenda where no one could ever stand up to his individualism, his imagination, his creativity and his idealist dreams. The building of this tower brought liberty to the people. But not for long.

Soon, the rulers of this world, gathered and started plotting against humanity to put them back into their enslavement. That’s when they built that huge castle prison. Brick by brick, day and night, haunted with each little detail, looking for the finest and most resistant material available, leaving nothing to chance. Obsessed to make the Castle-Prison so secure, that nobody could ever escape from it. They started inventing new realities through harmful technologies and pseudo tyrannical science based on nothing. They made it the only reality in this world.

This is when he realized that it was time to rebuild a new Tower of Babel to free people and re-discovered old herb remedies and new worlds and freedom.

He smiled has he picked up the brick and climb the ladder, knowing that this was his true destiny.

Yes, indeed, it is hilarious and very funny. You and Jon, both crack me up when you write.

Although I decided to treat this post in a more philosophical way, that wasn’t my first thought.

After reading this:

“The wife was upstairs packing for a trip to her sister’s. She needed a break.”

And this:

“She reminded him of his wife as she’d once been, a long time ago. He took the woman’s hand and walked over to the stack of bricks and picked one up”.
“Let’s climb a ladder,” she said.” “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

My FIRST thought was this one:

…She left him… He left her… whatever!

But then I thought of you and didn’t want to torture you, one more time, with that never ending tune in the brain, that is so hard to shut down…lol